


Over Troubled Water

by Ludicrous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Meetings, Hospitals, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:47:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26693206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludicrous/pseuds/Ludicrous
Summary: Mycroft went to visit Sherlock at the hospital - alone, as he always did. But perhaps this time he won't have to go through this all on his own...This was written for the Mystrade Monday prompt "I can't do this on my own."
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 19
Kudos: 114





	Over Troubled Water

Mycroft’s hand was clenched tightly around his ever-present umbrella. He had dismissed his driver before they arrived, too agitated to stay seated. 

His brisk steps were the only sounds on the pavement - the whole world was grey and unbreathing.

His hair was curling at the nape of his neck - he had forgotten to open the umbrella once under the rain. Drops of water slipped down his neck. He barely felt their icy touch.

He stopped at the door of the hospital room. He could hear the soft beeping of machines, the hurried gait of the nurses and, a little further on, a rough voice pleading with the vending machine. Ghosts of sounds brushed Mycroft’s ears - old echoes of tears.

It could have been day or night - the electric lights gave nothing away. Mycroft fancied they were rather stuck somewhere between the two. _Neither here nor there._

Mycroft’s hand was steady on the doorknob. He looked for all the world as he always did before a meeting - his suit fit him perfectly, without a wrinkle in sight. One would have to neglect to notice the hollow eyes and the haggard gaze. Mycroft certainly did.

Sherlock’s pale face was almost translucent in the hospital lights. Something about the stillness of his body left a chill in Mycroft’s bones. He could not remember a time when Sherlock stood still long enough for him to notice the first wrinkles appearing around his brow.

The lack of movement made Mycroft restless. He paced about the room, lost, his eyes both fleeing the sight of his brother and endlessly checking for signs of life. Sherlock’s eyelashes fluttered - Mycroft stopped, his breath caught in his chest. Then, as quickly as it had begun, it stopped.

Mycroft dropped down into a chair, his face in his hands. A desperate plea echoed in his mind, over and over.

_I can’t do this on my own._

His parents had not answered his frantic calls - they never did. His mother had complained about Mycroft giving them a fright by calling at all hours. They had taken to unplugging their line at nights - to get a good night’s sleep.

Mycroft stood again, taking Sherlock’s hand on a whim. Pale veins lined it and Mycroft pictured the steady flow of blood going through it time and time again - keeping his brother alive.

They never allowed such closeness between them; their declarations of affection hidden behind petty remarks. Yet these extraordinary circumstances were surely good enough excuse for a temporal lapse in petty games.

"I am an inadequate nurse, of that I have no doubt,” Mycroft murmured in the quiet - a sinner confessing his crimes. "I have tried everything to protect you and I still failed. You have every right to hate me. And you will, once you have recovered enough to do so."

Mycroft put back Sherlock’s hand gently against the blankets; knowing he would not hold it again. His brother had not stirred - he looked vulnerable as a child in the hospital gown.

An instinct made him turn his neck to look at the door. A shadow stood on the threshold. As Mycroft stared, it cleared its throat.

"I am deeply sorry to intrude, sir. I’m the one who found the kid and, well - I couldn’t help but come back for news."

Mycroft nodded and the man - a sergeant, Mycroft recalled - entered the room. He was holding a cup of coffee. A gentle smile graced his lips; one that reached his brown eyes. He handed the cup to Mycroft.

"You look like you’re in need of it," he explained, his dark eyes gazing softly into Mycroft’s soul.

Mycroft grabbed the offering. Warmth bled into his hands. He applied the cup against his sternum and breathed properly for the first time in hours. 

“Thank you,” Mycroft returned his eyes to the stranger. He desperately craved the company. "Please, sit."

_Please, stay._

Hours passed them by. Gregory had endless anecdotes to share - his voice soothed Mycroft, surrounding him like a soft embrace. 

After a while, Gregory convinced him to go out and have a breath of fresh air. They stood and talked, their silhouettes etching lines in the pavement. It seemed like they were the only two souls awake in this city - in this world.

Cigarette smoke flickered overhead in the bluish light of dawn. Ash fell from above, black snow on the pavement.

Mycroft rested his cheek against Gregory’s shoulder, Gregory’s arm steadying him. Mycroft huffed out a breath that was smoke and tears, his shoulders shivering slightly. He let himself fall apart, relishing in the relief of being held. 

He could feel Gregory’s chest expanding against his own, a balance of strength and tenderness.

As the sun rose above the buildings, Mycroft thought to himself; _we’ll be alright_. They had plenty of time left for a happy ending.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from Simon and Garfunkel's song. 
> 
> Please let me know what you thought of it!


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